


In the Heat of the Sun

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cadillac Ranch, Happy Ending, Heat Stroke, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: Fury kept Phil's recovery a secret for good reasons, but now it's time to ignore them and go save Clint. Phil's not sure where they'll go from here, as long as they get the chance to try.





	In the Heat of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift-fit for Shell, who asked for heat-related hurt/comfort in Texas. If y'all have never looked at photos of Cadillac Ranch, you should.

“Where is he?” Fury growls at the room full of tactical agents sitting at computers.

“Sir?” One of them replies, turning in her seat.

“Where is Agent Coulson?”

“I haven’t seen him, sir.”

Natasha steps into the room, dressed in her black field gear, and folds her arms across her chest, staring at Fury with a challenge in her eyes.

“Agent Romanoff, you don’t have clearance,” Fury replies.

“I don’t care,” she says. “You told us Coulson was dead. You told him to keep his mouth shut. 

Fury steps toward her. “And he did.”

“Until three days ago, when we lost Clint’s signal, so Coulson left on a Stark plane this morning.”

“You lost the signal three days ago?” Fury shouts to the agent at the front of the room. Then, without a beat he turns to Natasha. “He did what?”

“You’ve been incommunicado, so he filed an emergency leave form and left. Stark loaned him a plane after he finished yelling about him being dead for a while. Coulson’s looking for Clint.” She pauses. “Who doesn’t know he’s alive, which should make things interesting.”

“When did Coulson tell you?” Fury asks.

“Two hours before he left this morning. Wanted me to come with him, but I’ve got an emergency mission in Uzbekistan to leave for in fifteen minutes. I thought you might want to know, though,” she says with a shrug, and then she turns and leaves.

Fury stares after her, turns back to the room of agents sitting suspiciously still, and says, “Get a med team on standby in case Coulson has to call for one, and somebody get their ass up here and explain to me why losing an agent’s signal three days ago wasn’t grounds for a call up the chain of command.”

<><><><><><><><><>

Clint skin feels like it’s baking, and he stumbles as he tries to slip quickly into a shallow ravine that’s dusty with scrub brush and sand. His tac suit was grey when he put it on four days ago, but now it’s a faint orange. His bow is packed up because the damned sand is wreaking havoc on his string and the joints, so now he’s got his handgun out, praying that his hand is still steady enough to aim if he has to. He pulls his water bottle off of his belt and tilts it to his mouth, but clenches his eyes shut in frustration when he remembers there’s nothing left.

He checks his wrist compass and peers over the edge of the ravine he found. Two men in brown fatigues creep over the nearby ridge, guns sweeping. Clint takes a deep breath, holds it, and fires two quick shots before he ducks and runs down the ravine. They can’t follow, and he ignores his dry mouth and racing heartbeat and puts ten minutes of distance in before he stops, sucks in a few heaving breaths, and looks out from the ravine again. No one has followed.

He keeps moving. Two hours later he pulls off his tac vest and stumbles again.

His comms crackle when he tries to hail his SHIELD handler, and static is his only answer. His legs are jelly and he has to stop moving and shed his shooting gloves, even though getting rid of coverings is not the answer to being off book in the desert. He has to, though, because his brain is refusing to let his feet keep moving if Clint won’t at least pretend he’s trying to cool down. When he gets moving again he has to swallow hard and regulate his breathing to quell the nausea in his belly.

He shouldn’t be here. Well, he’s off course for damned sure, thanks to the bad intel on the terrorist cell caught with alien tech and hiding in Palo Duro, but he also shouldn’t be here in general. Stupid, but downtime from Avengers business is really bad for his psyche these months since Loki, so he begged Fury to let him have just one mission for SHIELD while nothing was really happening in New York.

He’d also underestimated his inability to work well with a handler who wasn’t Phil.

Laramie wasn’t bad, aside from the not-Phil part, but he was given bad intel, and now all Clint can think of is the careful way Phil would hand out contingency plans in tidy folders during the briefings, followed by his small smile and a shrug even though the initial plans had backups. These were backups of the backups. Laramie didn’t have any extra folders, and his initial plan was clearly flawed. The intel situation could’ve been dealt with if he’d had a contingency, but Phil was dead and Laramie wasn’t him.

Clint stumbles, and his knee hits a sharp rock as he tumbles to the ground.When he looks up and sees twelve garishly spray painted Cadillac halves sticking horizontally out of the ground a few hundred yards away, he blinks, because surely he’s hallucinating now. Seriously. Cadillacs. The car. A bunch of them that look like they’ve been shoved in the ground, and then they look like a drunken horde got handed spray paint cans and went to town on them. The purple one’s kick-ass, though, so he heads that way. If he’s hallucinating slick cars, he’ll find the coolest looking one to die under. 

<><><><><><><><><><> 

Phil finds Clint sprawled out under a silver and purple spray-painted Cadillac that’s sticking halfway out of the ground like some sort of bizarre tree trunk. He’s bleeding sluggishly from a wound near his knee, and he’s pale and glassy-eyed and panting worryingly. His eyes are the greenish grey that Phil used to get lost in sometimes, though, not electric blue. He’s beautiful. Phil goes to his knees and puts his hand on Clint’s cheek, and Clint blinks slowly and sucks in a sharp breath.

“I don’t feel so good, Phil,” he mumbles, and then he coughs and laughs bitterly. “You’re here, and here is under half-buried Cadillacs, so clearly I’m not feeling so good.” He pauses, and mutters, “What kind of crazy gets a hell like this? Dead boyfriend and Cadillac Ranch. Fuck.”

Phil looks around, grateful that there aren’t any tourists here this time of day, and puts his phone to his ear. “Stark? You said you’d send help if I needed it. I need it. I need a med team now.” 

“Uh, about that, not-so-dead Agent,” Stark answers, and Phil knows he’s going to be paying for almost dying for a while, “Fury called me directly and said if you need backup that he’s got a quinjet standing by with a med team and Barton’s favorite EMT. Should I let him step in?”

Phil closes his eyes for a moment. He knows Nick cares, and he knows Clint and Nick have a friendship that is going to need some repair after this, so he agrees. “Let Fury send his team. If he’s talking about Sanders, he’s right. It’ll be good to have him. I’m sending our coordinates. Tell them to make it quick.”

He looks at Clint.

He wasn’t sure for a while he was going to be able to ever look at Clint again, and his heart is in his throat at the sight. Three months ago what he felt for Clint was adoration, love, and a warm rush of lust. New Mexico seems like a dream now, a hazy mix of sex and laughter and adrenaline over aliens. (“Aliens, Phil! Holy fucking shit they’re aliens. I know one was hell-bent on killing everything, but still. Kick-ass aliens.”) New Mexico meant joy. He’d like a chance at finding some of that again.

Phil brushes a hand down Clint’s dusty, pale cheek before he presses two fingers to his neck. His pulse is way too fast, and his skin is way too dry for someone sitting in a desert.

“See,” Clint mumbles. “I told Laramie we needed a contingency for the backup, but he’s no Phil Coulson. Said we didn’t need it. Wanted to tell ‘im you always had ‘em and you were the best, but I fuckin’ hate talking about you.”

Phil gets a little lost in Clint’s voice for a second, and then he shrugs his backpack off and pulls out the ice-filled metal thermos he’d packed and presses it against Clint’s cheek. “Hey, help is coming. Sanders is on his way. Can you drink something?”

“Don’t need it, Phil. I’m dead already.” He laughs bitterly. “Been dead for months, really.” 

It’s like he’s getting stabbed again, with those words. He shoves the feeling down. “Clint, drink this.” He knows it’ll be half an hour or so before the jet can get here, and he doesn’t like the looks of this. He tips Clint’s head back and pours some cold water into his mouth, making a mess because he’s not helping. “Clint, come on.” 

Clint takes a little of the water and grimaces. “Tastes funny. Dead people’s water tastes funny.”

Phil can’t help his bitter laugh. “Yeah. I bet it does. Come on, have a little more.”

Clint reaches up and sluggishly pushes the water away. “Fuck off.” He musters a startling glare and says, “Why’re you here?”

And Phil doesn’t like the slur in his speech, the tremor in his hand, and his whole body lights with adrenaline when Clint suddenly starts to convulse under his hands. Sharp twists, like he’s covered in ants or something, and Phil drops the water to hold him until he finally stops, spent and limp in Phil’s arms. His eyes are half mast and unseeing, and Phil’s body is tight like a bowstring, staying ready for the next thing.

Phil grabs the water and pours it over Clint’s face and head, hoping for any decrease in Clint’s clearly rising temperature. He pulls his comm link out of his pocket and shoves it in his ear. “This is Delta leader calling base.”

A voice crackles over the comm. “Delta leader, this is base. Status.”

“How far out is Sanders and his team?” Phil demands.

“Patching you through to Sanders now, sir,” the voice replies, and then, “Sanders here. Phil. Tell me what’s going on.”

Phil relaxes a bit at the sound of Sanders’ Alabama twang demanding an update. It’s familiar and he’s able to take a deep breath and report. Sanders has been the onsite med team leader for as long as Phil’s been Delta leader, and they came into the academy together, too. Sanders was on the team that knew Phil had survived Loki’s spear, and has an ability to inject calm into the air with his voice.

“Heat stroke, I think,” Phil says. “His speech got slurred and he just had a seizure. I tried giving him water, but he won’t drink it. I poured some over his head but I don’t know if it helped.” He swallowed his, ‘get here faster. After all this, I can’t lose him now,’ that he wants to yell.

After a beat, Sanders answers. “Okay, can you find some shade?”

“We’re under a Cadillac.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Okaaaay. Stay there and strip his uniform off. Pour the remaining water over his chest and if he seizes again just keep him from hurting himself.” He stops and says something to someone else. “I’ll be there in under ten. And Phil, remember the key to it all.”

Phil blows out a breath. “Don’t panic.”

“You gottit. Sanders out.”

Phil doesn’t panic. He strips Clint’s uniform, ignoring the jelly-like muscle control Clint’s got at the moment, and carefully pours the water over Clint, and holds his hand. He can’t help uselessly brushing his hand through Clint’s hair. “Stay with me, Clint,” he mutters. “I need to talk to you, so don’t you fucking die under a purple Cadillac. Although,” he starts, but he cuts that off. Despite the ironic aesthetic of Clint Barton perishing under a purple car, he’s not going to say it out loud for the universe to hear.

Clint closes his eyes and then opens them again, and manages to fix his gaze on Phil. It feels like something cold in Phil is thawing, and he leans close. “Please be real,” Clint whispers.

Phill smiles as warmly as he can. “I’m definitely real, Clint. I’m here.”

Clint stares at a spot behind Phil. “Loki’s here. You gotta go. I don’t want him here. Phil.”

“I’m here,” Phil says. “Loki’s not here anymore, Clint. He’s gone.”

“Never gone. Never gone. Phil, please.” 

Phil hears the jet behind him and he brushes Clint’s dry face again as a sudden desperate fear threatens to overtake him. “Stay with me, Clint. Stay awake. Sanders is here. He’s going to take care of you, and then we’re going to figure out where to go from here. Together. We’ll be together again if you stay with me,” he whispers, and he can’t stop. “We’ll go for walks and play cards and eat shitty diner food again Clint,” he whispers, but Clint’s eyes are closed, his hitched breaths seem amplified by the metal car behind them. Phil keeps talking. “So stay with me, okay? Just let Sanders take care of you and stay with me.”

A hand on his shoulder is firm, but Phil keeps talking, leaned over Clint, until the hand pulls, gently.

“Phil, let us get to him. Come on, Phil,” and Sander’s ‘on’ is firm, in that southern way that almost makes the o a long one, and the ‘i’ in Phil’s name is almost an e and Phil closes his eyes and lets Clint go. 

“That’s it. We’ve got him. He’s gonna be okay,” Sanders says as he checks Clint’s pulse and then helps another medic roll Clint onto a stretcher.

Phil stands and watches as they wheel Clint onto the jet, but he can’t really move until another medic takes him gently by the elbow and pulls him onto the plane so the doors can shut and they can head back to base.

Phil’s sitting in the med bay waiting room with his head in his hands when someone holds a cup of coffee and a bottle of ice water under his nose. He looks up to see Nick standing there with a hesitant smile on his face.

“I wasn’t sure which you needed after being in the desert for a couple of hours, so I brought both.”

Phil sighs and leans back in his seat. “Both is good.” He takes the drinks and downs the water in two gulps and then peels the lid to the coffee cup off and takes a sip.

“Any news?”

Phil shakes his head. “No, but Sanders said they had it under control on the flight. Said I just needed to wait ‘till they get him settled before I can go sit with him. Severe heat stroke.”

“Laramie’s been demoted for not following proper procedures in reporting an agent missing,” Nick says. He takes a deep breath, and in his friend voice, he leans into Phil’s shoulder and says, “You know, if he hadn’t grabbed this mission I was gonna use this down time to let everyone know you were alive. The reasons for keeping it quiet have run their course.”

“And what reasons were those? I haven’t pressed you on it before.”

Nick sighs. “It’s not always good to let the WSC know everything, but at this point it won’t help keeping this quiet. Besides, you need to be able to follow up on New Mexico. It’s not fair of me to stand in the way of that magic.” He grins at Phil.

“Magic, huh. I didn’t even know you knew we’d gotten together. I was going to tell you, but Loki got in the damned way.”

“Of everything,” Nick says darkly, and they sit in silence for a few minutes until Sanders pushes through the med bay doors into the lobby.

“Hey, sirs,” he says with a lazy salute to Nick. “Phil, he’ll be waking soon, most likely. We’ll check faculties, but I’m hoping since he only had one seizure it didn’t go too far. He’ll be pretty tired for a few days, and we’ll have to keep him here overnight to make sure he gets enough fluids and there aren’t complications, but I put him in the room with the comfy recliner for you. Figured you’d wanna stay.”

“New Mexico magic,” Nick whispers into Phil’s ear and then, “Keep me posted on his condition, gentlemen.” He stands and leaves with a flourish.

Sanders watches Nick go and shakes his head. “That fuckin’ guy.” He turns to Phil. “Actually, I’ll be handing things off to Doc Wentford now that Clint’s settled. I just wanted to let you back before I leave.”

Phil follows him back to Clint’s room and shakes his hand before he goes. “Thanks, Jake. I needed a familiar face this time for sure.”

Jake nods. “I get it. He’s gonna be okay, Phil. Call me if you two want to go for a beer sometime soon. I’ll be around,” he says with a smile.

“Unless you’re not,” Phil fills in.

“You gottit,” Jake says and then he leaves with a wave.

Phil settles in and texts Tony to let him know the situation, and then closes his eyes and waits.

He wakes to Clint’s gravelly voice. “I thought I was dreaming out there.”

Phil opens his eyes and tries to draw a breath, but the sight of Clint awake, sitting here, taking to him like any other day in medical after an op steals his words. He can only shake his head no.

Clint nods and holds out a hand.

Phil takes it and settles down next to him on the bed.

“We’re both alive?” Clint asks softly.

Phil nods, but his words still won’t leave his throat.

Clint blinks, cocks his head, and nods too. “Fury hid you for some reason.”

Phil manages another breath and words this time. “He was worried about something with the WSC and our safety.”

“He made them quit scapegoating me after Loki. He kept me safe.”

“I was only really out of the woods a couple months after the battle. Only now field ready, but not officially cleared.” He pauses, but can’t help adding, “I had to come for you.”

Clint raises an eyebrow and a bit of the spark Phil loves so much shows in his eyes, “You went against Nick?”

Phil shrugs. “Not so much against. He wasn’t here. I went around him. He’s over it already.”

Suddenly Clint sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes.

“Clint?”

“You’re here. You’re alive and I’m alive and you’re here. Phil,” he says, and the anguish in Phil’s name shreds through Phil’s chest. “I’ve been such a goddamned mess thinking you’re dead.”

“I thought you were dead, too,” Phil whispers.

Clint opens his eyes at that. “What?”

Phil swallows. “I thought we’d have to kill you. Or that Loki would kill you or keep you forever if we lost. I thought,” he stops when his breath won’t support his fears anymore.

Clint leans forward and pulls Phil into a tight hug. “We’re both here.” He holds on to Phil like they’re drowning and Phil finally, finally, finally feels his world slot back into its right fit, pieces clicking together again like they should as his hands cling to Clint’s back and and he feels the steel band arms of Clint’s around his own.

Phil holds on tight, and he knows that nothing will part them again, the way it should’ve been from the beginning.


End file.
